


Stumbling in the Dark

by bennygecko



Category: Destiny (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennygecko/pseuds/bennygecko
Summary: The tale of a roguish Commander, a not-so-roguish Warlock, and how they learn that sometimes home is a person and not a place.





	1. To Let Go Of Myself

**Author's Note:**

> "I like you to be exactly the way you are, because in all my experience, I have never known anyone like you." — Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire

The mountain peaks off in the distance glisten in the warmth of the late afternoon sun, the snow-topped crests twinkling and shimmering like far-off stars. Usually the mountains are shrouded with thick clouds of fog, but sometimes, if the sun hits the crags _just_ right, he can see the summits shine through the haze.

Linden always loved the mountains. Not _these_ mountains, of course, but the ones back home, back where he grew up. He remembers countless hiking trips with childhood companions, friendly competitions to see who could climb to the highest peak in the shortest amount of time.

He and his friends had sustained countless scrapes and bruises and broken bones in those days, and if he thinks hard enough, he can almost remember the look on his mother’s face every time he came home with some new injury to be tended to, that frustrated fondness in the furrow of her brows and the lilt of her poorly hidden smile. It was the same fondness she’d always shown for his stubborn ways, his dear old mother.

He misses it. Those mountains, his friends, his home, his mother. The life he has now is fine, satisfactory even, and he’s relatively content with where he finds himself, it’s just… not _exactly_ where he expected to be when he thought of his future life all those centuries ago as a young boy in rural Russia. He certainly didn’t expect to find himself here on a tower overlooking the last safe city on Earth, that’s for sure.

He’s still not sure where here _is_ exactly, truth be told. Months have passed since his ghost found him and dragged him back from the dead, and yet he still doesn’t even know where he is. All he knows it that it’s not home, not _his_ home, the one he’d grown up in, but it’s _a_ home, and that’s all that matters, he supposes.

Linden heaves a sigh and slicks wayward strands of hair back and away from his forehead with quick fingers, lets his hands fall to rest on the cool metal of the balcony railing. He can see everything from up here, the quiet scenery of the last city in front, the bustle of the Tower behind, and he in the middle of it all.

If he were someone else, he might think that there was some sort of deeper meaning in that picture, might spin lines and verses about a man torn between two halves of his life or some such bullshit, but he never was one for poetry.

He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, the thick, heavy air warming his bones. It’s nice to be back in the relative solitude of the Tower, nice to have a chance to relax and unwind. It’s probably selfish of him, that he always looks forward to returning here, to getting away from the atrocities of the world just outside the city walls. He’s fortunate that he even _has_ somewhere to return to, a place to rest his head. Most people aren’t afforded that luxury these days.

It’s still strange to him, how so much of what he took for granted before is just gone now. Hell, he can’t even be sure whether or not his hometown is still standing after all this time or if it’s been wiped off the map and picked clean by the Fallen. He’s spent enough time around the Fallen to know the latter is the more likely, but he tries not to think about it too much.

“The view really is nice from up here, isn’t it?” Ghost chirps.

He gives a breathy chuckle, nods slowly. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Sure as hell didn’t have a view like this back at home, the last city sprawled out in front of him, lit up bright and glowing like a beacon, the Traveler hanging low in the sky just above. It still catches him off guard sometimes, looking up at the sky expecting to see the sun and seeing the Traveler there instead. It’s one of many, many things he’s still getting used to in this life.

Ghost whirs and beeps in his ear, and he’s known Ghost long enough to know he’s filling the silence, trying to think of what to say. “Should I tell Ikora you’ll be later than expected?”

Linden scrubs his hands down his face with a sigh, scratches at the thin growth of stubble on his cheek. Ikora has been expecting him to report to her for a while now, and he knows it’s rude to keep her waiting, but peaceful moments like this are few and far between. Surely she, of all people, would understand his taking a moment to stop and enjoy the quiet. Besides, she’s probably been too distracted to notice how much time has passed since his ship docked.

“No,” he says finally. “No, just. Tell her I’m on my way.” And with one last final look out at the view, he pushes himself off the railing and down the stairs, out of his thoughts and back into the fray.

The plaza is bustling with activity, Guardians and their fireteams returning from missions, some getting ready to head out, others in civilian clothes browsing the shopkeepers’ wares. Things are fairly predictable here at the Tower. Not too much out of the ordinary happens, not like out beyond the walls where nothing happens like it should or ever goes according to plan. It’s comforting, in its own way, the monotony of it all here at the Tower. Reminds him of home.

A few Guardians smile and wave at him as he makes his way through the crowd, and he returns their acknowledgements with thin smiles and curt nods. He doesn’t spend much time around his fellow Guardians, truthfully, aside from when duty demands it. A loner’s path isn’t the wisest path for a Warlock to walk, perhaps, but he’s held his own so far.

Lord Shaxx does his absolute best to stop him as he passes by, spouting his usual lines about earning honor through battle, but he manages to wave him off with half-baked excuses and mumbling about important business.

The man is relentless, Shaxx, always poking and prodding at Linden, hoping that one day he’ll give in and toss himself into the Crucible and “prove his might” or whatever banalities Shaxx happens to throw his way on that particular day. It hasn’t happened yet, much to Shaxx’s apparent annoyance, but Linden rather hopes it stays that way.

Not that he’s… morally opposed to the Crucible in any way. It’s sport, plain and simple, and people need something to keep themselves entertained in these tumultuous times. It’s just not _his_ preferred method of entertainment. A long nap is entertainment enough for him, really.

The Hall of Guardians is mostly empty as he makes his way down the steps, save for the Vanguards and a few stray Guardians. Zavala is at the head of the table, as always, in the middle of conversation with one of his pupils, and he glances over and spares Linden a nod as he enters the room.

Ikora is nose-deep in some ancient tome, so thoroughly engrossed that she doesn’t notice his entrance. It’s endearing, her fixation on her studies and mastery of her craft. They’re kindred spirits, he and Ikora, both sharing a mutual fascination with the Light. He considers himself lucky to be one of her many students, and Linden couldn’t ask for a better, more skilled, or more kindhearted mentor, not even if he tried.

Cayde-6 is off on his side of the table, hunched over his map, muttering something unintelligible into his comm link. Truth be told, he’s still not entirely sure what Cayde actually _does_ around here, besides complain about being here in the first place.

Still, he’s a nice guy. Linden likes him, really. He’s charming, in his own distinctly Cayde way, quick-witted and cocky, but not insufferably so. Always looking out for his Guardians, doing everything in his power to make sure they all come home safe and sound.

They’ve worked together briefly a fair few times on odd jobs and random patrols, had a few polite business conversations here and there, but not much else. It’s just the nature of the job, he supposes. This isn’t exactly a sewing circle, after all, and they’re not here to make idle small talk. They have jobs to do, each and every one of them. Lives depend on them doing their jobs and doing them well, and as much as Cayde apparently hates his, he seems to hate the loss of lives even more.

Linden comes to a stop just behind Ikora and waits a moment before clearing his throat loudly. “Lady Warlock.”

Ikora looks up from her book and turns, the corner of her mouth raised in a small smile. “Linden, you look well,” she greets warmly. “I was wondering when you’d check in.”

“I’m sorry for the delay,” he says quickly. “I got… side-tracked.”

She seems to take this as answer enough and nods, clasps her hands behind her back. “I trust your mission on Venus went smoothly?”

“Well, about as smooth as anything goes with the Vex,” Linden shrugs. “But, if you’re wondering if it was a success, of course.”

Ikora quirks a brow, raises her chin. “I expect nothing less, Lord Guardian.”

“As well you should, ma’am,” Linden says.

Her gaze softens ever so slightly at that, just enough that anyone else might miss it, but it doesn’t escape his keen gaze. “Get some rest, Linden. Take tomorrow off and report back to me on Thursday morning for your next assignment.”

Linden smiles, ducks his head in a bow. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Ikora returns his smile with one of her own. “This next mission is an important one, Guardian. I need you at your very best.”

“I always am,” Linden says, lopsided smirk pulling at his lips.

Ikora rolls her eyes, waves a hand. “Go on, Guardian. You’re dismissed.”

Linden bows once more and turns to leave, but he stops when a voice from just behind calls out, “Hey. Warlock.”

He crosses his arms and turns to find Cayde-6 looking up at him from his place at his map, propped up on his elbows, chin resting in his hands. “It’s Linden, right?” he asks.

A nod. “That’s right.”

“You’re the Warlock I talked to the other day on the Cosmodrome, yeah? Took down that Servitor for me?”

Linden nods again, folds his arms over his chest. “That’s me.”

“Well,” Cayde starts, rubbing at the base of his neck with a gloved hand, “that was some damn good work you did out there. Got rid of that Servitor quicker than any Guardian I ever seen.”

Linden shrugs modestly, purses his lips. “It was just an Elder. They don’t take too many hits before they fall.”

“Still, you got some serious skill,” Cayde insists. “Not too many Warlocks get up close and personal with their prey like you do.”

Linden hums. “Guess it’s just easier for me to play things that way.”

Cayde tilts his head, laces his fingers together. “Takes a lot of guts.”

“Or just plain idiocy,” Linden deadpans.

Cayde laughs at that, sticks a finger out to point at Linden. “A sense of humor,” he remarks, voice thick with exaggerated incredulity. “Didn’t know Warlocks could make jokes.”

He’s not sure what to say to that, not entirely sure what sort of response Cayde’s looking for, so he settles for a thin smile and lets the jab slide without comment.

“Anyways,” Cayde says, “it was good working with you again. Look forward to seeing what else you can do out there.”

“Yeah, you too,” Linden replies. “I mean. Working with you,” he clarifies. “It was good.”

Cayde squints at that, bright eyes narrow and piercing, holding Linden’s gaze, and he squirms under his eyes, slides his hands into his pockets, pulls them back out to cross over his chest. “I’ll, uh.” He shrugs, clears his throat. “See you around, Hunter.”

“See you around, Warlock,” he says. ”And, hey?” He pushes up off the table to stand up straight, rests his hands lightly on his hips. “Enjoy your day off.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Linden says. “I’ll, uh. I’ll try.”

Cayde nods. “Keep your head down.”

He’s not sure what to make of this, what to make of any of this, this sudden casual conversation with Cayde. It’s… not unwelcome, not really. Just… unexpected. He’s too caught off guard to really process any of this, to try to make some sense of it. It’s just… strange. Outrageously so.

He doesn’t know Cayde well enough to figure if this is normal for him, if he just strikes up random chat with Guardians passing through. Maybe it’s a way for him to keep entertained through boring and uneventful shifts. Maybe he likes taking any chance he can to pick on Warlocks. Or, maybe he simply wanted to congratulate him on a job well-done?

That can’t be right. Does Cayde even congratulate people? He’s not sure, can’t be sure about any of this speculation, really, but the many possibilities just make his head spin.

Linden realizes, after a long silent moment, that Cayde’s waiting for some sort of response from him, so he coughs, shoves his hands in his pockets stiffly. “You, uh. You too,” Linden says, voice gruff, and quickly turns on his heel to trudge up the steps and back out into the world.


	2. So Many Nights

“Do you think I’m boring?” Linden asks one night, apropos of nothing.

Cayde looks up from his map and squints, eyes shining bright in the dim, late evening light of the Hall of Guardians. “Beg pardon?”

Linden shrugs half-heartedly, self-consciousness in the stiff set of his shoulders. He looks down at the books and scrolls scattered across the expansive surface of the table and traces his finger over an illustration on one of the loose pages, following the tight swirls and curves with the tip of his index finger. “I’ve just been thinking is all,” he says.

“Oh?” Cayde asks. “You do a lot of that, this thinking business?”

Linden chuckles dryly, the smirk sliding off his face quickly as he looks up to meet Cayde’s eyes. “I’m serious,” he says.

Cayde seems to catch the weight in his tone and nods, pushes himself up off the table to stand up straight, rests his hands at his hips. “What’s up?”

Linden sighs, drums his fingers against the table lightly. “Well, it seems silly now,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“Hey,” Cayde says, and Linden finds himself caught off guard by just how soft his voice is when he says it, the way he manages to make his heart _twist_ with just one word. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me, you hear?” He folds his arms across his chest, gives him a nod. “Tell me what’s up, Linden.”

Linden wets his lips, fingers plucking at a loose fiber on the hem of his sweater. “I just worry that maybe I’m… not interesting enough for you is all,” he finally spits out, wincing at just how childish he sounds.

Cayde narrows his eyes, shifts his weight back on the heels of his feet. “Not interesting enough,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Linden says, a touch defensively. “I just…” He sighs, shakes his head. “I’m not like you, you know? I don’t particularly care about being out there in the field in the middle of the action and I’m fine with staying here and reading and studying and I don’t go in the Crucible and I just do my job and go home. I’m just…” He shrugs. “Just boring. There’s not much to me. Not like you.”

“Not like me,” Cayde parrots.

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean,” Linden snaps. “I just…” He huffs, drags his hands down his face. “I’m sorry. I’m ruining your evening.”

“Oh, yeah,” Cayde drawls, hands falling from his hips, clasping them loosely behind his back as he saunters his way around the perimeter of the table. “My _incredibly_ thrilling evening of monitoring Cabal troop movements on Mars and handing out patrols to every nocturnal Guardian that comes across a godforsaken beacon on that godforsaken rock.” He stops a few feet away from Linden, leans back against the edge of the table. “Yeah, you’ve sure thrown a wrench in my big plans alright.”

Linden ducks his head, a self-deprecating grimace pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You know what I mean.”

“No,” Cayde says earnestly, “I’m afraid I don’t. So, tell me what’s bugging you.”

Linden starts to protest, but stops, worries at his bottom lip. “I just… I really—“ He cuts himself off, clears his throat. “You’re a great friend, Cayde. Hell, you’re the best damn thing that’s happened to me since I got here. I’m just worried you’ll get tired of hearing about boring Warlock shit and move on to someone more exciting, that’s all.”

“Well, sorry to break it to you,” Cayde says, “but I ain’t going nowhere. You’re stuck with me, pal.”

Linden grins sheepishly, a bit taken aback. “Is that so?”

A nod. “Damn right it is.”

He’s quiet for a moment, silently holding Cayde’s gaze, before he reaches out a tentative hand to lightly squeeze Cayde’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere, either.”

“Good,” Cayde says. “I mean,” he clears his throat, “would have been awkward if you… you know.” A shrug, hand waved in feigned nonchalance. “Didn’t feel the same.”

“I do,” Linden blurts. “Feel the same, I mean.” He takes a few steps closer, shortens the distance between them to no more than a foot, hand still resting at his shoulder. “I feel exactly the same.”

“Yeah?” Cayde asks softly.

“Yeah,” Linden nods. “You and me. Always.”

Cayde doesn’t reply immediately, his eyes falling from Linden’s, and he wonders for a moment if maybe he’s gone too far, presumed too much, but then Cayde slowly reaches a hand up to rest at Linden’s outstretched arm, gloved fingers clutching at the thin material of his sweater. “You’re a good man, Linden. Hell, a great man.” He shrugs, looks back up to meet Linden’s gaze. “And you’re one hell of a great friend.”

Linden gives him a toothy grin, and he hates that he can feel his cheeks burning and hopes beyond hope that Cayde doesn’t notice.

He’s never entirely sure what to think about his… _feelings_ for Cayde, about whether or not these feelings are requited, or if he’s just looking for signs that his feelings are the same. They’re friends, sure, Linden knows that, but… whether Cayde’s feelings go deeper than friendship is a mystery entirely.

Linden likes to think that maybe he could stand a chance with someone like Cayde, and he likes to think that maybe sometimes when Linden flirts with him he’s flirting back, too, and he likes to think that maybe every touch and every glance means as much to Cayde as it does to him, but he just can never be sure if he’s misinterpreting or seeing things how he wants to see them. It’s beyond frustrating, but there’s no way in hell Linden would risk their friendship on the incredibly slim chance that maybe Cayde reciprocates in the slightest, so he puts it to the side, compartmentalizes. Out of sight, out of mind.

It hasn’t worked so far, just ignoring his feelings and pretending they’re not there, but maybe if he keeps trying, it’ll work one day.

“You too, Cayde,” Linden says. “You too.”


	3. Still A Flicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see.
> 
> It’s been a grip since I even thought about this here self-indulgent fluff, but Destiny 2 has been out for a hot minute now and I’m back on my bullshit.
> 
> I’ve got a sizable chunk of ideas gathering dust that I’d like to revisit, and some new ones that I've been jotting down since Destiny 2's release, but I won’t be putting them out on any sort of schedule. This was always intended to be a side project, so any future updates will be pretty sporadic, fair warning.
> 
> Anyways, I appreciate the kind words and comments asking for more. I never expected this to get any attention at all, but it’s definitely been a pleasant surprise and I can't thank you all enough.

The moon hangs low in the sky, its soft, white light filtering through the thin curtains. They’re modest curtains, sheer and white, a little tattered at the edges, frayed threads poking out here and there. His mother had similar ones when he was a child, nailed into the wall over their kitchen window.

If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he’s back there, back in the kitchen with his mother, the air warm and heady with the smell of freshly baked bread. He can almost recall the taste of her bread, too, the warm, thick slices slathered with sweet honey butter.

He could pretend, but he doesn’t. It’s hard to ignore the fact that this room is cold and smells of ozone and sweat, not bread and butter.

Linden can never decide if he likes the fact that he so vividly remembers his life before the collapse, before the darkness. Not that it’s all darkness now, not really. There’s light in places, in people, and it softens the ache, but he supposes nothing can really ever completely erase the pain of losing everything you once held dear.

He breathes deeply, exhaling through parted lips. The Tower has been in a frenzy lately, what with this Iron Lords business and the SIVA crisis nonsense, and he thinks this must be the first time in weeks he’s been able to relax, to pause and unwind and just _be_.

He takes another deep breath, slowly this time, feeling his lungs fill and his chest rise, exhales at the same measured pace. It’s a nice reminder that he’s alive, focusing on the way his muscles stretch and expand and tighten with each breath. It helps, the steady breathing, when death starts to become all-too familiar, when his lungs become too accustomed to that first gasp of air after Ghost brings him back from the darkness and nothingness.

Gloved fingers slip into Linden’s hair, combing through with a gentle touch. “You okay?” Cayde asks.

Linden doesn’t reply immediately, keeps his gaze on his fingers circling Cayde’s knee, his mind on his breathing and the hands in his hair. Cayde’s thigh is warm against his cheek, a warmth he’s become more familiar with recently. He always expected Exos to be cold and hard and firm, and it still takes him by surprise just how much Cayde is anything but. The man practically radiates warmth, a warm heart, warm personality, warm hands. He doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone quite as bright, quite as brilliant as Cayde.

He shifts his position in Cayde’s lap, rolls onto his back, cool eyes trained on the dingy ceiling. “I think so,” he says finally, simply.

“You think so,” Cayde repeats.

“Yeah,” Linden nods. “I’m just… just tired, that’s all.”

Cayde hums. “You have been busy, haven’t you?”

Linden chuckles, all breathy and low. “Only a little bit.”

Cayde is silent for a moment, fingers idly brushing Linden’s hair back from his forehead. “I like this, you know,” he says. “Just you and me, a little peace and quiet. It’s nice.”

Linden flicks his eyes to meet Cayde’s gaze, gives him a soft smile. “Yeah,” he nods, “it is nice, isn’t it?” A pause. “You think we’ll have more time like this, now that the SIVA situation is under control?”

He knows that answer to that, and he knows Cayde does as well. There’s always going to be something, always some crisis, some job, some situation. They know this, the both of them, that the life of a Guardian is one of self-sacrifice, of selflessness, and quiet moments like this are few and far between.

But, Cayde doesn’t say that. Instead, he bends down to press his mouth to Linden’s forehead in his best approximation of a kiss, fingers stroking Linden’s cheek all the while. “I hope so, darling,” Cayde says, voice soft in Linden’s ear. “I sure as hell hope so.”


End file.
